August rains meant no trains at Dombivili station. No office and no typing press notes. With Krishnamurthy and a few train regulars squatted on platform 1 for rounds of 'cheettu, umbaththi-aaru, villichchukali (cards, 56 is a variant of bridge).' Krishnamurthy tapped a tiny tin box on his left palm, draining out a strong smelling, brown powder; mookku podi; took a pinch between his fingers on the right hand, held his nose with the left hand and inhaled the powder; dusted the nose with a cloth turned dark brown with nose dusting; bid 56 spades, won. 'Podi da,' he told me like Rajanikanth tapping out Neruppuda. Before the next bid started, Krishnamurthy offered a drag of snuff; the brown powder hit the roof of the head, tears in the eyes, and me turned a snuffer. Krishnamurthy had enormous style, me was crude; he never hurried the intake. 'Oru sukham (A happiness)', he snuff-smiled. For K (as he is known), a drag plonked him at his village in Palghat and the portico where afternoons he and his friends honed bidding 56 and finer aspects of arattifying (gossiping). If me reading is not wrong, Oliver Goldsmith and Samuel Johnson in London enjoyed snuff; and they were fine writers; and talkers; in me near family none went for snuff; they went for nothing; Krishnamurthy, like us, was a second-class rail pass holder, had a tin box, thumb size; would fill it up every second day at a Malayali murukkan kada in Dombivili East; me tapped snuff supplies at a Kannada pottikada on PM Road, Fort, on the way to some contact or other for a stupid story and a stupider byeline; a silly ego walk; four annas it cost; there were two varieties, Madras and Andhra with Madras being a kicker; the kerchief turned a snuff brown; Rama disliked it intensely as me smelt snuff always; but for me it saved cash as cigarettes and drinks dropped off the menu; every time, when typing press notes on a broken Godrej typrewriter stalled, a pull of snuff and some dusting, helped. Krishnamurthy was happy earning a convert; lost out on Press Club friends; K is in Pune without podi, giving it up for gods and prayers; me did not stay a convert; after some days, a cigarette, a smoke a day, got added to snuff; and then an occasional drink: the three together drink, cigarette, snuff; and snuff went, cutting costs. Today at Borivili misses snuff.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Of snuff....
August rains meant no trains at Dombivili station. No office and no typing press notes. With Krishnamurthy and a few train regulars squatted on platform 1 for rounds of 'cheettu, umbaththi-aaru, villichchukali (cards, 56 is a variant of bridge).' Krishnamurthy tapped a tiny tin box on his left palm, draining out a strong smelling, brown powder; mookku podi; took a pinch between his fingers on the right hand, held his nose with the left hand and inhaled the powder; dusted the nose with a cloth turned dark brown with nose dusting; bid 56 spades, won. 'Podi da,' he told me like Rajanikanth tapping out Neruppuda. Before the next bid started, Krishnamurthy offered a drag of snuff; the brown powder hit the roof of the head, tears in the eyes, and me turned a snuffer. Krishnamurthy had enormous style, me was crude; he never hurried the intake. 'Oru sukham (A happiness)', he snuff-smiled. For K (as he is known), a drag plonked him at his village in Palghat and the portico where afternoons he and his friends honed bidding 56 and finer aspects of arattifying (gossiping). If me reading is not wrong, Oliver Goldsmith and Samuel Johnson in London enjoyed snuff; and they were fine writers; and talkers; in me near family none went for snuff; they went for nothing; Krishnamurthy, like us, was a second-class rail pass holder, had a tin box, thumb size; would fill it up every second day at a Malayali murukkan kada in Dombivili East; me tapped snuff supplies at a Kannada pottikada on PM Road, Fort, on the way to some contact or other for a stupid story and a stupider byeline; a silly ego walk; four annas it cost; there were two varieties, Madras and Andhra with Madras being a kicker; the kerchief turned a snuff brown; Rama disliked it intensely as me smelt snuff always; but for me it saved cash as cigarettes and drinks dropped off the menu; every time, when typing press notes on a broken Godrej typrewriter stalled, a pull of snuff and some dusting, helped. Krishnamurthy was happy earning a convert; lost out on Press Club friends; K is in Pune without podi, giving it up for gods and prayers; me did not stay a convert; after some days, a cigarette, a smoke a day, got added to snuff; and then an occasional drink: the three together drink, cigarette, snuff; and snuff went, cutting costs. Today at Borivili misses snuff.
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